Head Full of Curls
by Cressida Isolde
Summary: Boone thinks about Carla.


A head full of curls on the pillow next to his.

A head full of curls resting on his shoulder.

A head full of curls tickling his cheek as she curls up next to him. His arm around her slender waist, pulling her just a little closer.

The motel room still smells like her. A little. If he closes his eyes.

He's cleaning his rifle and smoking a cigar at the tiny formica table in the motel room. He bought them for when the baby comes.

Thing with this kind of rifle is, you gotta pull the trigger with your toe. Something like that shouldn't matter, but God, the thought of it was kind of embarrassing. You don't do that to an old friend like your rifle.

Jeannie-May'd have to scrub his brain off the wall, though, and the thought of it almost makes him laugh. Standing on the bed with her shoes off to save the sheets and no matter how hard she scrubs she'll never quite get those stains out.

His sidearm is on the table, watching him down that long black barrel.

"What have you got to lose?" it said. Well, it was right. What indeed? A dingy room. A best friend who couldn't get over his fucking incomprehensible hatred for a woman he'd never even tried to get to know.

Forget him.

It was strange which dreams were the worst. Not the ones where she's screaming and bleeding and asking _why had he done this_? Not the ones where he's forced to replay it over and over again. Not even the ones where he misses and she's taken away from him, never to be seen again.

The ones where she's back. And everything's normal.

_A shake of her head, curls bouncing. "What are you talking about, sweetheart?" she asks. "I'm fine. The baby's fine." That big smile she had for him only. She puts a hand on her stomach. "You must have had a bad dream."_

And his heart feels so full it might explode, and he's almost giddy with relief. A bad dream. That's all. A nightmare to be forgotten. He's been mistaken, that's all.

When he wakes up, there's one, two, three seconds of happiness and there's no curly head on the pillow next to him and the three seconds after _that_ are why he doesn't sleep with a gun on his bedside table any more.

Could be why he doesn't sleep at all.

He learned in the army that fatigue does strange things to you. Hearing voices, seeing things in the edges of your vision that aren't really there. The best thing is, though, after a while you stop caring. You live in a fog. You don't think, you don't react. You drift. Your attention span goes to hell and your hands get shaky, but the only things you see from the dinosaur mouth are geckos. Sometimes molerats. Things that'll get scared away by the crack of the rifle if you miss, anyway.

He didn't even get to bury her, touch her curly hair and pink lips and say sorry - in person - for everything he'd done.

For being irritable when she asked about why he left the army.

For letting her be taken from the motel room, somehow, through the sleepy Novac streets.

For shooting her through the _fucking heart_.

Sidearm on the table says: "What do you have left to live for?" And it's a good goddamn question.

No one looks him in the eye, but that's okay because if they did they'd see what he's done. It's written all over his face and it's only a matter of time until someone recognises him for what he really is.

No one talks to him, but that's okay because his throat's closed up and he can't speak. He has to force himself to breathe, sometimes.

He's trapped. He's trapped. This place is stifling, choking him, and God he's sorry, sorry for everything he's ever done and maybe his whole life has been a mistake and he never meant for things to turn out like this but that doesn't mean much when you've done what he has. Maybe this was payback. Payback for the night of the flames and the screams and the way a child stumbles when you shoot it through the stomach with a .308.

He passes Manny on the way to the dinosaur and doesn't even look at him.

He looks out into the night and he _wishes_ something would come to kill him.


End file.
